


Little Brother

by ZeeCatfish



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cronus is a douchebag, M/M, and Dave is bad at feelings, mentions of past cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeeCatfish/pseuds/ZeeCatfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John asked you if you were feeling any better yet earlier you told him you were fucking lonely as balls and considering changing your occupation to prostitute so you could find your own personal Edward Lewis to pay you loads of money for standing around and looking pretty. Then you told him you’d always wanted to have sex on a piano, so it’d all work out fine. The reference went straight over his head, which in hindsight should not have surprised you in the least because Pretty Woman isn’t really John’s usual genre, and even if it had been it’s not anywhere near obscure and shitty enough to catch his eye.</p>
<p>When Rose asked you the same thing a few minutes later you told her you discovered the small store at the far side of your street carries penis-shaped candles and that you now swore by watching them slowly burn down right to the waxen ballsack as a therapeutic relaxation technique.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title is 'In which Dave has emotions and then proceeds to do everything wrong.'

Breaking up sucks major horse’s ass.

It’s been a week and you’re still finding Cronus’ shit all over your apartment, from toothbrushes to magazines to tubes of hair-gel standing innocently next to the sink, and you’re not sure what to think about it all.

You’d known he was completely and utterly incapable of keeping his dick confined in his dumb nautically themed briefs about a month into your ‘relationship’, quotation marks coming in bold plus underline for emphasis, and yet somehow he’s still gotten close enough to your sweet maiden heart for your final decision to cut him out entirely to hurt. You’re no delicate spring flower to be crushed underfoot by the first asshole to come along, at least you didn’t think you were, and yet here you are, this close to shedding more than one manly tear over a packet of cigarettes you found stashed away in the cupboard with that pack of cereal that only stands there for posterity anyways. 

Dumping the factory-sealed cancer into the trash bin you straighten your shoulders and march over to the closet and open it. You’ve been telling yourself you need to get rid of anything of his still in there for days, but just like every other time you’ve tried your legs turn to jelly when you notice one of his stupid shirts hanging on one of your hangers, furious resolve vanishing like snow by the summer sun. 

Instead you kind of just want to crawl back into bed now, do nothing at all for a while, but you’ve promised John and them you’d at least come out and drink with them tonight so they can ‘keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t do anything _too_ stupid while drunk off your ass.’

When John asked you if you were feeling any better yet earlier you told him you were fucking lonely as balls and considering changing your occupation to prostitute so you could find your own personal Edward Lewis to pay you loads of money for standing around and looking pretty. Then you told him you’d always wanted to have sex on a piano, so it’d all work out fine. The reference went straight over his head, which in hindsight should not have surprised you in the least because Pretty Woman isn’t really John’s usual genre, and even if it had been it’s not anywhere near obscure and shitty enough to catch his eye.

When Rose asked you the same thing a few minutes later you told her you discovered the small store at the far side of your street carries penis-shaped candles and that you now swore by watching them slowly burn down right to the waxen ballsack as a therapeutic relaxation technique. 

Jade you told that you’d discovered a nest of dustbunnies in your sock drawer, conveniently all shaped like the flat purple socks Cronus preferred, and that you set them on fire before she even got the chance to ask you anything. After that you assured her that they were very ugly dustbunnies, and that their colony would not be missed. She very firmly insisted you go out drinking with her and the others. 

Everything feels monochrome, like some old silent movie you don’t really give a fuck about anyways, and you kind of wish you could flick your own off button and sleep it out until life stops hurting and until your jackass of an ex-boyfriend grows some basic common fucking courtesy and stops being absolutely everywhere without even having to be physically present.

You sit around and twiddle your thumbs while you wait for time to inch along on a snail’s pace until it’s time to meet up with the others. You’d do something to keep yourself busy, but when you’re in a mood like this one absolutely everything you do seems to be about heartbreak and cheating assholes and Cronus, and you just don’t want to. 

When it’s finally time you’ve spent longer looking at your ceiling than you want to admit. You shrug on your least seventies coat, which is a fancy stereotypical gumshoe coat you remember getting years ago but never wore because it’s just not your style. Now you’re grateful you got it, because it’s the kind of thing that’d make Cronus frown; he’s got this preconception that in order to be a normal dude there’s a million and ten things he needs to not be, and while he’s properly groomed (or greased, in his case) he’s got this weird notion that looking fancy or dolled up instantly makes you a jackass whining for attention. 

You’ve never really understood where the sentiment came from, and he’s always been kind of weird about talking about anything that isn’t sex because he never liked to ‘complicate things’ whatever that’s supposed to mean, and that used to suit you just fine because while you like rocking a swag-ass suit, normally you don’t feel like putting more effort into anything than combing your hair, putting on your shades and throwing on whatever clothes aren’t gross.

For a moment you consider if you should just dress up every day now, play pretty princess just to spite his memory, but then you realise you’re making everything about revenge again and with a considerably more sour mood you force yourself out of the door, not really looking forwards to a night spent in company, even if they are your friends.

A few glasses later you’re less reluctant. All three of them seem exasperated to various degrees as you spout out the tenth or so story about Cronus doing something stupid, just to make sure they’re completely aware of exactly how much of an ass he is. Rose’s face reads ‘I told you so’ all over, but at least she’s being merciful enough not to say it out loud, and you’re working up a nice buzz.

Then John tenses up in the middle of one of your stories, and instead of asking what’s wrong you make the mistake of turning around to see whatever distracted him. John tries to stop you, to distract you with some dumb question but you’ve already seen what he didn’t want you to see and your heart stops.

For the first few seconds you’re completely and utterly sure Cronus Ampora is standing a few feet behind you, even though this joint is nothing like his usual hangouts (because the drinks cost actual money, and he doesn’t _have_ any) and he’s way overdressed for his usual tastes. You can feel a sudden, unreasonable anger flaring up inside you, and you almost consider getting up and punching him, just because you’re getting close to drunk and because you can.

Then you notice the glasses, the dyed hair and the rings on his fingers and your brain screeches to a halt all over again because none of it adds up. This guy is so, so much like Cronus while simultaneously being everything you’ve just spent a five months long relationship hearing your now ex whine about because only douchebags and assholes would do something like that, and who the hell would want to date one of those? 

He turns around, gives you a better look at his face while he says something to the girl next to him, a prim-looking girl with a sharp boy-cut and skin so pale it’s almost glowing. He talks with his hands, same as Cronus, but his motions are wide and dramatic like he’s trying to suck all of the attention towards him while Cronus tended to be more rhythmical, just his hands without involving the rest of his arms, and it kind of makes you want to pick a fight with him even more because this was supposed to be your night, and here he is dragging everything that is Cronus and his revolting face back into your life.

He looks angry too, vibrantly so, and even though that probably doesn’t have much to do with you at all you feel victorious, kind of like you somehow just managed to kick Cronus in the balls without even really doing anything. Then he looks over in your direction and his eyes narrow like he can see you laughing at him straight through your glasses, and something explodes. You’re not sure whether it’s him or you, but one moment you’re both sitting down with your own friends and the next you’re standing centimeters apart, hissing insults at each other.

It doesn’t escalate into anything more because John drags you away before you can throw any punches, and some midget you didn’t really notice before does the same for him. Whatever you said to him is a complete haze to you, maybe because you’re too angry to remember, maybe it just doesn’t matter, but there is the one vivid memory that stands out against the murk, one glorious moment where his face contorted into an expression of pure, ice-cold fury when you called him something stupid like the ‘other Cronus’. 

You don’t realise the significance of that expression until later, when you’re sobering up under the shower. Whomever mystery Cronus duplicate was knows about your ex, and you should probably be curious, but instead you just picture that single expression of anger on Cronus, which is easy enough considering how alike the two of them look, and then you imagine yourself being the one who put it there. It’s more glorious than it has any right to be. 

\---

Work seems to fly by in monotone, not especially interesting but involving enough to keep your mind busy and stop you from moping around too much. Years ago you would have balked at the thought of yourself manning the register in a bakery, but these days you’re okay with it. It isn’t glamorous or especially exciting, but it helps you get around without having to resort to pushing papers, so you’re not complaining. 

You are completely convinced of this right up until the bell chimes and Cronus the second walks in, scowling like the whole world is against him but not looking in the slightest bit surprised to see you there. You’re frozen in place, torn between acting polite and getting angry all over again because this is the last place where you want to be confronted with your ex’s stupid face, even if it’s second-hand. 

He silently points at a slice of blueberry pie and you grab it for him without a word, still not sure what you’re supposed to do about this. You should be telling him how much he’s supposed to pay, but he’s already digging through his wallet, an obscenely bright purple monstrosity that does seem to have actual money in it, unlike the beat up old leather thing Cronus carries in his back pocket (for card carrying purpose only, you assume, because it’s not like he has anything else he can put into there). 

He puts the cash on the counter in all coins, and you count it out without breaking the awkward silence that sort of hangs around like a high-school poser who doesn’t realise they’re not as welcome as they think they are in whatever group they decided to attach themselves to. It’s exactly the right amount, and for a moment you allow yourself to cherish the hope that this incredibly weird situation you don’t really want to be in will pass in silence, that Cronus will take his pie and get the fuck out of here.

Your hopes are unfounded. He does grab his pie, but instead of hurrying out and going about his life like nothing happened like you really, really want him to he stands still, looking at your face intently while fidgeting with the little cardboard carrying container and in the end you give up and ask, “Was there anything else I could help you with, sir?”, sounding incredibly flat and impolite even to your own ears. You just cannot bring up the energy to care.

He seems to struggle with his words for a moment, before tucking the little box under his arms and beginning to fiddle with his rings again. You’re not sure whether to be grateful because it’s a habit so unlike anything Cronus ever did it’s making it easier to pretend you are not unwillingly stuffed into the same room as his clone or if you should be annoyed, because he’s stalling and you really just want him to get the hell out. “Eridan,” he finally tells you, “My name is Eridan. Eridan Ampora. So not Cronus.”

The last bit is tucked onto there as if it’s a reassurance, as if he thinks that if he doesn’t point out he’s not your jerkass ex you’ll keep expectantly staring at him, waiting for him to whip out his hair-gel and try to convince everything that breathes to have sex with him. 

You’re admittedly a lot more curious now than you were last night, when all you wanted to do was be angry, but you keep any questions (Is he Cronus’ twin? Why is he going out of his way to tell you, a stranger he’s almost gotten into a fistfight with in a bar one time his name? Why does he think you’ll give a single fuck, flying or stationary?) to yourself and shrug. “Sure, whatever Cronus the second. Now if you’d kindly remove your ass from this fine establishment, you’re keeping the line.”

‘The line’ consists of a single, fragile looking old lady that just entered, who looks a little spooked at being brought into the conversation. Eridan-not-Cronus goes red in the face with anger. He stammers something you can’t make out, stumbles over his tongue and then turns around with a dramatic swirl and marches out. The only reason he doesn’t slam the door behind him, you think with some amusement, is because they’re automated sliding doors.

You try not to think of the encounter too much, and by the time your workday ends you’ve already forgotten his name and what he ordered. Forgetting his stupid hipster glasses and hideous pink snood proves a little harder, but that’s just because of the family resemblance to a certain someone you don’t want to think of right now and nope, not going there. You assume that’s the end of that.

Your assumption is proven wrong when he strides in the next morning and buys a chocolate muffin, briefly trying to engage you in conversation while the store is empty. The conversation is awkward and tedious, and you’re glad when another customer comes in so you have an excuse to shoo him and his hideous bright yellow scarf out. This is not an isolated incident.

He clearly tries very hard to impress you, going through an immense array of topics to show of just how smart and educated he is, leaves you tips (which you are reluctant to accept, because this is a bakery for fuck’s sake. Who leaves tips in a bakery?) and after a whole three weeks he actually leaves a tiny wrapped gift on the counter when you’ve got your back turned. If he were anyone else you might have been flattered, but it feels more like he’s rubbing salt in your wounds than anything else with the way he’s parading around looking just like his older brother(by four years, he tells you shortly) . 

If you’re completely honest with yourself you’re probably projecting more similarities on him than there actually are. In fact the entire point of talking to you at all seems to be based on trying to show you how different he is, and you wonder if you hit some kind of sore spot when you called him Cronus the first time you met him. But then his come-ons get less subtle, less casual, and he begins reacting more irate when you brush him off and you’re starting to doubt his motives again. 

Either way, his constant presence is grating on your nerves, sort of like someone spray-painted ‘You broke up with Cronus and you’re not over him, you suck’ on your wall and then made it a point to rub your face against it at least once a day. It’s putting you on edge to the point where even John starts tiptoeing around you like you’re a ticking timebomb, and bit by bit you get less polite when brushing Ampora the little one and his big puppy eyes off until you’re basically telling him to fuck off after paying for whatever he decides to buy that day, in not so many words.

Eridan is irritable, stressed, and he’s been completely honest about not liking the way you brush him off from the beginning with his sneers and sour looks, but it still catches you by surprise when he suddenly explodes at you, right in the middle of the store.

Even your boss comes out from the back to check out the ruckus when he starts screaming about how much of an asshole you are, and you’re still reeling for the sudden whiplash in routine while he starts ranting off all the ways in which you’ve apparently gravely offended him while he was just trying to get you to like him, show you that “maybe I’m not so much a’ fuckin’ asshole as you’re makin’ me out to be for no real fuckin’ reason you’re sharin, you unfathomable assmonger!” 

Cronus never made it a secret that he was convinced that it was their fault when people didn’t like him, that he did everything he could to be nice and problem-free and approachable, and that it was stupid how everyone always went for the assholes while he had to take the backseat without even getting the chance to prove himself. Eridan’s words aren’t an exact mirror, but they’re alike enough that you tell him to his face that if he thinks that way, he’s welcome to throw himself in front of a bus and see how many people’d miss him, that you’ll use that as a measuring gauge. Cronus already proved to you that some people needed a lot more than a chance, especially if they’d whine about how all girls wanted the bad boys _to the very guy they were supposed to be in a relationship with_.

You expect him to switch to the defensive, tell you he isn’t like that and to give him another chance like you know Cronus would have, like he had done every single time in the past when you gathered your balls and called him out on his bullshit. Instead he sort of flounders, goes wide eyed and seems at loss for words, and your heart sinks into your stomach when you realise you might have actually hurt his feelings. Because if he’s not faking it, if he’s not just trying to get into your pants like his brother did then that means you might have just stepped right onto his tiny little heart and crushed it into little pieces the exact same way Cronus did to you.

Swallowing, you tell yourself it’s not the same. And it really isn’t, because you’ve only known Eridan for a month, because you’ve never lead him on or pretended to give a shit, because you’re not breaking any rules or promises you’ve made, and because you don’t owe him anything. It turns out all the things you didn’t do mean very little when he makes a strangled little whining noise and promptly begins to cry, after which you can do very little but stand there and feel like an asshole. 

He frantically looks around for an escape, and finally the small crowd that’s built around the scene parts to let him flee, red in the face from either tears or shame. You get some seriously sour looks from the onlookers, who have just about zero knowledge of the situation but apparently feel entitled to share their disapproval of your actions regardless, like you don’t feel bad enough yet.

There is a pretty girl with long, wavy hair among them who quickly scribbles something onto a piece of paper and slaps it on the counter in front of you. “Apologise,” she tells you in no uncertain terms, giving you a haughty look before walking out of the store with her chin up high and her shoulders squared in a way that you can’t describe as anything but regal. 

Scribbled on the slip of paper, in stereotypically girly bubble-writing, is an address, which you pocket reluctantly while a heavy feeling burns in your gut. Your boss gives you a heavy-handed pat on the back and tells you that’s enough drama for the day and to get back to work, and the only thing on your mind is exactly how much you hate apologising.

\---

When you get to the address the girl gave you you’re almost surprised to find out Eridan lives in a pretty well-kept, average looking apartment building. You were half expecting him to live in a trailer just like Cronus, but he did mention having a job once, so you suppose you should have given him some credit.

You can hear his doorbell from outside, one of those annoyingly shrill ones that nobody really likes but come as pretty much the default because most stores don’t allow doorbell testing, but other than that it seems to be dead quiet inside. There aren’t any lights on, and you consider that he might not have gone home at all that night. Cronus had a bad habit of looking up some cheap fairweather buddy for a one-nighter whenever someone rubbed him the wrong way, wouldn’t be that far a guess to assume his little brother’s bedroom habits took after that.

This place isn’t exactly on the way home, on the expensive side of town as it is, so you’ve got no excuse beyond wanting to apologise for being a dick if he asks you why you suddenly appeared on his doorstep. That is if he doesn’t just slam the door in your face in the first place. That seems just about dramatic enough to be a thing he’d do. Interestingly it isn’t a thing Cronus would do at all, you consider, he’d have his mind too focused on the possibility of a casual make-up fuck, the skeevy asshole.

When it stays quiet for a few minutes longer you almost give up and turn back around. You can walk off now, you realise, and it would end all of the Eridan drama. He’d probably stick around your workplace for a while just to show you how truly and deeply insulted he is, huffing and puffing up every time you walk by, but he wouldn’t give you any more trouble, and isn’t that what you’ve been gunning for all along? You’re starting to wonder why you even came in the first place if it’s just going to complicate things on the long run.

Then there is a crash behind the door, and Eridan’s voice grumbling out a slur of curses and you suddenly really regret coming. And that right after you promised yourself you wouldn’t do anything else you’d regret big time, go figure. 

The door opens with a click, and instead of a grumpy head peeking at you through the opening like you were expecting, Eridan nearly rolls outside, hair poking up at funny angles and looking so absolutely shitfaced you’re almost impressed. And that’s something, considering you’re friends with Roxy, who you thought was the prom queen of drunk. You should dial her up and tell her you’ve got the king to go with her pretty plastic crown. 

But before you get the chance to crack any wiseass remarks he sort of shoos you inside, not even seeming to question why you’re there or whether or not you actually want to come in, and you realise he’s shivering. They’re probably drunken life choices of his to open the door in nothing but a purple blouse and skinny jeans, not even wearing socks or shoes even though it’s minus ten icicle degrees outside. Even his token scarf collection is absent around his neck, even though you can see around ten or more of them hanging over the stairway railing behind him. 

Instead of asking you anything or leading you anywhere he sort of ambles back inside, leading you right past the door leading to what seems like a cozy, kind of tacky living room with an especially plush looking magenta couch and up the stairs, which seems like an especially dangerous prospect with the way he’s swaying on his feet. He stops once, not to say anything or steady himself, but to look at his hands like they’re made of aliens and rainbows. Then he hiccups and focuses on getting you both upstairs. Or rather, getting himself upstairs; you’re seriously starting to wonder if he even remembers letting you in at all. 

Your suspicions are confirmed when he half walks, half falls into what is clearly his bedroom and sort of burrows himself below an impressive mountain of plush looking purple pillows and cozy looking violet duvets, of which he seems to have at least three. You didn’t really notice it before, but it’s cold as balls inside his house and you’re almost curious why he doesn't just turn up the heating, but then his hand pokes out of the pile of duvets to grab a bottle of what looks like very, very expensive vodka and the only thing that you can manage is a croaked “jesus christ that’s sad.” 

He turns back to you and stares owlishly, looking surprisingly innocent for a moment before giving you a wide grin that looks so out of place on his face it kind of weirds you out. He looks a little more like Cronus than usual like that, except his grins are less lazy sleazebag and more kid in line for a roller coaster they think will be totally awesome, right up until it makes them puke. “Hey Da- da, daaa-” he’s slurring big time, and then goes kind of cross-eyed when he begins frowning about not being able to pronounce things. “Hi Daweee,” he finally slurs out, looking ridiculously proud of himself for almost managing to correctly pronounce the whole four letters of your name. 

You mentally kick yourself when you catch yourself thinking it’s all kind of adorable. You came here to apologise for making him make an ass out of himself, and even if it kind of looks like he’d just forget about it ten seconds after if you did you should probably just get it over with and get the hell out of here before he decides to start getting handsy or something.

Then a horrible idea starts brewing in your mind and before you can stop yourself you sit down on the edge of his bed and wrestle the bottle from his fingers. He doesn’t really try and stop you, just stares at his empty hand in wonder like you magick’d it away. 

You put the bottle on the ground, next to his sneakers before turning your full attention to his face. His glasses are kind of crooked and his hair is a complete mess, but beyond that there’s those same high cheekbones and fine lips that drew you to Cronus in the first place, and you wonder how much it’d hurt him if you used him for just this one night, if it’d be enough to scare him away forever.

More than that you wonder if it’d somehow get back to Cronus, and if he’d feel anything about it at all.

You grab his chin, force his eyes away from his hand and towards your face and then draw him into a kiss, relishing in his surprised little squeak. You don’t even have to close your eyes to imagine you’re kissing Cronus, even if he tastes like alcohol rather than cigarettes and doesn’t seem as intent to take over as his brother would have been.

Still, there’s no denying your surprise when, after a moment of carefully kissing you back he begins pushing at your chest with the kind of weak coordination only a drunk can manage. You pull back, a little annoyed at being interrupted because after all those weeks of telling yourself to get over Cronus now that you’re getting the chance to get something similar enough for it to count you suddenly _need_ this more than anything else. 

He shoves his finger in your face in a way that would kind of remind you of the way one of your teachers in preschool used to, except instead of wagging it condescendingly he just sort of sways, mouth open like he’s going to say something except from the way he’s frowning you don’t think he’s figured out the right words yet. “You,” he says slowly, overly focusing on the pronunciation so he actually sounds more drunk than he does when he’s just slurring all over the place, “are taking adwuh-wantage a’ me.”

You can feel the disbelief spreading over your face, because while he isn’t technically wrong per se -you _are_ taking advantage of him, you can’t even think of any way to twist it into something nicer- it’s difficult to take in that despite his constant badgering and trying to get your attention, Eridan Ampora is actually turning you down. “What?” you ask him, blurting the word out before you can even spin it into something that’d flow more smoothly.

“I’m drrrung...” he tells you, “drunnnnk.” He’s looking at you, as seriously as a man who’s so plastered it’s a miracle he’s managed to take a single step without falling flat on his face possibly can, like that explains everything. When you don’t react he makes a sour face at you, appearing to be thinking about something very hard. “Drunnng people can’t conseh-seint. I’m dru-drunk.”

You’re not sure it’s because he’s trying so hard to sound normal, or at least understandable that his slurring is standing out so much or if it’s just that he’s so drunk it really is as bad as it sounds. You’re not sure you really care. Your dick is still demanding sole dominion over your brain, but despite sounding like a tacky high-school anti date-rape pamphlet he’s making a surprising amount of sense considering who he is, and that part of you that likes thinking of yourself as a somewhat decent human being at least has the common decency to be ashamed of your own behaviour. 

He’s still mumbling something, but it’s less forceful, less determined now. You’re not even sure if he’s still making a point or if he’s started babbling incoherently, because the few words you manage to catch -god, asshole, stay, knick-knickerwuh-weasellls and several variations of the word fuck- don’t really allude to any kind of coherency, or even anything you really need to be paying attention to.

Then he sort of reaches out to you and you wonder if all of that was just bullshit and drunken bravado, if he’s just going to turn around on himself and roll over for you. You’re a little caught off guard when you realise you probably wouldn’t, couldn’t do so without feeling like you’re as big a skeeve as Cronus, if not worse. At least he never did anything purposely designed to hurt you. You’re not so sure if he would back off now, but the thought of Cronus feeling up some random drunk is making you nauseous, so you push it to the back of your mind.

Instead of doing anything untoward though, Eridan just pulls you over so you’re sort of laying next to him and his nest of warm, soft bedding and then snuggles into your side, hugging your arm to his chest tightly like he’s afraid you’re going to leave. Which, in his defense, was exactly what you were planning to do. He’s asleep before you can even say anything about this new arrangement.

Getting loose again turns out to be a much more complicated task. Whether it’s because he’s drunk as balls or if he’s just that deep of a sleeper, Eridan doesn’t rouse even when you try to pry your arm free. He does tighten his grip every time you feel like you’re making progress however, and by the end of it you’re tempted to just punch him in the face to wake him up, but that’d just be a dick move.

So instead you work yourself out of your coat and shoes, something that’s surprisingly hard when you’ve got a grown-ass man clinging to you like you’re a lifeline and he’s drowning in that shitty purple fluffy bed stuff he’s got way too much of, and when you’ve chucked your shoes over the edge of your bed and flung your coat somewhere in the general direction of the doorway you shift around until you’re sort of cuddled up next to him inside his rodent-hole of fluff and soft things, glad he’s not a bed-hog like his brother.

You’re half expecting to lay awake forever, too bothered by the strange bed and strange room and that infuriatingly familiar face to be able to calm down enough to actually sleep, but Eridan doesn’t snore, and his room smells like sea-salt and pomegranate instead of smoke, and soon enough you’re dozing off, uncomfortably warm and restless with unresolved tension. 

You don’t sleep well that night.

\---

When you both wake up the next morning you expect it to be awkward. You expect for him to be moody and hungover and maybe kick you out because hey, you’ve been kind of an ass to him, but instead, after a minute of blinking at you sleepily he kisses you. 

Eridan’s mouth tastes like morning breath and hangover, but he doesn’t seem too bothered. His kiss is sloppy, but you can’t tell whether that’s because he’s still half asleep, because he’s still slightly drunk or because he’s just a shit kisser, and there’s something incredibly endearing about it all.

You manage to breathe out a short “what-”, but ‘the fuck?’ gets cut off by his mouth on yours and you get the sudden feeling he’s trying to answer you through kissing, even though that’s really not how shit works outside of movies. You think maybe he’s scared that words will chase you away, stop you like they did yesterday because you just so happen to not be an entirely immoral asshole, but today he doesn’t seem to be saying no at all.

You should be pushing him away, walk the hell out of here and never look back, move on with your life until the name Ampora is just some vague cautionary memory slumbering in the back of your mind that you might one day use to tell your kids to stay away from guys that use too much gel or dye their hair, but Eridan’s fingers pluck at the hem of your shirt and your other head kindly informs you to stop being rational. You throw all common sense out of the door and roll on top of him, pressing your mouth against his roughly, relishing in the eagerness with which he responds, like a starved man tasting food for the first time in days.

Instead of trying to push for control he just curls his arms around your neck and presses himself close against you, seemingly content to let you take charge. It’s not what you’re used to and it’s definitely not what you’d normally go looking for but instead of turning you off it just makes want to screw him into his ridiculous pile of fluffy purple pillows until he can’t walk properly, devour him whole until nothing of that naive, wide-eyed schoolboy attitude of his remains so you can properly unmask him, show him that despite all his efforts he’s just like his wretched brother on the inside.

Even just the fleeting thought about Cronus is enough to sour your mood, feed the anger that’s been burning inside you since the big break-up and with a growl you run your nails over the strip of pale, pale skin visible where Eridan’s shirt got untucked. He whimpers in your mouth, sweet, quiet little noises that you drink up eagerly.

Digging your fingers into his sides you grind your hips together, momentarily pulling away to grin at him when you realise he’s already hard. You’re halfway expecting him to blush or play coy, play up that innocent little act of his for all it’s worth, but instead he just surges forward to seal your mouths together again and you think you might just be okay with that. 

Your fingers find the buttons on his shirt, and it’s when his clothes come off you’re starting to see the differences between Eridan and Cronus. Maybe it’s shallow to think that way from just the physical differences between them, but as you let your hands roam over the soft skin previously hidden away you think that you might be entitled to a little shallowness; maybe it’s not so bad to let Eridan just be Eridan for this one moment.

Eridan is softer than you expected him to be, a little tubby where his brother was sturdy and muscular from a diet of instant noodles and exercise for the lack of anything better to do and you’re a little surprised at yourself for liking the difference. 

Instead of dwelling too much on it you break away from the kiss and sit back to work on the button of his pants. You fumble around for a while, cursing his lack of foresight in falling asleep in his expensive skinny jeans until he mercifully reaches down and helps you out, making fun of you with that weird, breathy laugh of his until you dive back down to kiss him silly.

You want to hurt him, to force him down and bite him until he bleeds and cries because you’re an angry, perverted fuck and because Cronus is an asshole, because you’re just some stupid guy who can’t let go of his grudges and because without those glasses of his they look alike enough that you think you could lash out now and mean it, but then he lets out a pathetically soft little whine and it’s so different from his brother’s loudness it shatters your dark fantasies before they’ve even properly finished.

He’s passive, much more passive than anything you’re used to and you’re pretty sure that’s supposed to be boring except it’s not like he’s not doing anything. He’s squirming against you, running his hands over your back almost reverently and while it doesn’t seem like he’s anywhere near losing himself in the throes of passion there is something inevitably erotic about the way his cheeks are flushed and his hair is tousled from sleep and how he’s reacting like every one of your touches is magic.

You’re more in control of the situation than you’ve ever been from a strictly objective point of view, with Eridan writhing and moaning beneath your fingertips. You’re the puppeteer, the master of the stage; right now you feel like you could just reach out and take him apart, piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle until nothing is left but a scattered thought and he would let you, melt into your touch like he’s doing now like it’s his greatest desire.

But in reality you’re not in control at all you realise as you let your teeth sink into the pale, slightly salty skin of his neck, hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break. From the moment Eridan woke up and kissed you he hasn’t been Cronus’ little brother, and one by one he’s dismantled every attempt to make this about revenge, about anyone other than himself and you wonder if he even knows he’s holding all the right cards now.

Like a clockwork reaction he suddenly flips you around and for a moment you wonder if he’s decided he’s got enough of you, if he somehow knows what kind of thoughts have been playing around in your head and figured out you’re too messed up for him, but then he catches you off guard again when he starts working on getting your clothes off with a look of determination on his face that looks so ridiculously out of place that you spontaneously burst out laughing.

You hadn’t even been aware there’d still been ice there to break until it shatters under the sudden lightness of your heart, and you quickly wrestle off your shirt and pants while he kicks off his skinnies and boxers, which had apparently still been stuck around his ankles. You give him half a moment to try and fold his pants before interrupting him with a kiss, quickly flinging them off of the bed before he can push you away. 

He looks so insulted you start laughing all over again, and he makes a ridiculously pompous face at you and all you haven’t had so much fun in ages, which is ridiculous because it really shouldn’t be all that funny. He’s making a lemonface at you, and it takes you a moment to realise he’s trying to stop himself from laughing too.

You kiss him again and he still tastes like hangover, but somehow the taste seems a lot sweeter in between breathy laughter and wandering hands. You pull him into your lap and he willingly curls against you, soft and pliant and warm in your arms and you’re not sure how you know but you’re suddenly very convinced that whatever it is he feels for you is completely sincere.

The two of you roll over so you’re laying half on top of him again and you lean over to whisper something into his ear, something silly that sounds like gibberish to your own ears. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but it makes him laugh again, and somehow that’s just fuel to the fire now. 

It’s nothing like the sex you had with Cronus, sex that was always all about him because he deserved it, because that was what lovers were supposed to do and there’s a small part of you that wants to get angry all over again, angry and sad because you somehow ended up getting used to Cronus even though you were only together for a little over five months. A much larger part of you wants to bite Eridan, bite and lick and kiss all over just to see how he’ll react because no matter how much whatever part of Cronus stayed with you wants to be part of everything you do, this was never about him.

Eridan grinds your hips together again and all thoughts of his brother are chased from your mind again as you busy yourself with teasing reactions out of him. He gives them freely, wholly throwing himself into sex with you like there is nothing else in the world that matters to him right now. You’ve never been the center of someone’s universe before, not that you know of, and it doesn’t even cross your mind to stop taking what he’s so freely giving to you anymore.

So you take and take, and with every inch you gain on him it feels like he’s a little bit more yours. You’re not sure where the sentiment is coming from and you know you should be afraid, you know it’s too soon and the wrong person, the wrong time and place but while you’re here, feeling his bare skin against yours as you try to chase every thought that isn’t about you from his mind you feel anything but scared.

When you’re both spent he huddles against you, burying his face into your neck and you wonder what’s going through his head right now, whether or not it’s even occurred to him that you might have been using him, that you might just become another single night to remember. You wonder if he sees sex the same way his brother does, a casual thing not necessarily tied in with relationships at all, something to demand of the world when he’s feeling down. 

The silence seems uncomfortable at first, right up until you realise that it’s only you who’s lost in thought. Eridan’s fallen asleep, breathing deeply against your neck while still wrapped around you like an oversized koala, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s always so clingy. It seems unlikely, the way he’s usually scowling and frowning and looking down on people like they’re doing him some kind of personal offense by breathing, but then it wouldn’t be the first time he surprises you today.

\---

As it turns out, it isn’t the last time either.

You’re halfway expecting for him to kick you out, or at the very least sit you down and demand some actual answers out of you. Considering how you’ve been treating him, you can’t say that would be anything but reasonable. 

Instead, when he finally does roll out of bed, looking every bit as hungover as you’d forgotten he was supposed to be and limping the full-on walk of shame for obvious reasons it’s only to drag you to the living room you saw the evening before, the one with the plush purple couch. After he makes you sit down he begins prodding the hearth, which is not a fake prop like you initially assumed but an actual open hearth with fire in it and everything.

By the time he’s done fiddling around with wood, newspapers and little blocks of something that is probably supposed to get the fire going (arson isn’t really your specialty; it never occurred to you that there might be more to setting things on fire than matches, fuses or wicks and maybe on some occasions gasoline, though that’s probably not a good idea at all) neither of you has said a word.

He settles on the couch next to you, a safe distance away, and gives you a strange look. He seems to be thinking more than wanting to convey anything, so you quietly sit and wait for him to say something while the two of you wait for the fire to begin heating up the room. In the meanwhile you take the chance to look around the room, the walls of which are almost entirely covered in pictures.

Cronus liked having his picture taken in general, but sentimentality was never his thing. He claimed it was because he prefered living in the now over bothering with vague concepts like the future and the past, but as the vindictive ex-boyfriend that was cheated on multiple times you think you assume you’re in a position where you can safely say it’s probably just that he doesn’t have anyone who wants to be in a picture with him. You can’t blame them.

There’s pictures of him with friends, not surprisingly including the girl who gave you his address (he still hasn’t asked how you even know where he lives and you still haven’t asked how he knew where you work, and the sudden realisation of how many things you just don’t understand about everything that’s been going on is a little unnerving) and the duo you vaguely remember him being with the first time you met him. There’s also more formal pictures of him standing next to a prim, fancy-looking older couple who you assume are his parents, but after a minute of searching you realise the one picture you were expecting to find isn’t there.

“You don’t have any pictures of your brother,” you tell him, like you’re somehow expecting him not to know this. He startles out of his reverie and follows your eyes to the family portrait standing above the hearth.

“Wha- oh, no. No, I don’t,” he says, sneering at seemingly nothing in particular. “Why would I want to?”

You’re not sure whether or not he never stated it outright like this before or if you’ve been looking at all the wrong clues right from the start, but the realisation that Cronus and Eridan apparently don’t even get along startles you. You’ve had no reason to believe they met up for tea every other weekend, but it’s never even crossed your mind that a pair of brothers might actually legitimately not like each other.

“He never mentioned you either,” you muse out loud. “Or anyone of your family, really.” You never really realised that either.

“He wouldn’t,” Eridan informs you with a haughty scoff, “since he’s been so fuckin’ eager to pretend he ain’t related to any a’ us since he hit fuckin’ puberty. Ma still tries to get him to visit for Christmas, haven’t the slightest idea why.”

You’re still missing some of the pieces, some details that might not even matter all that much, but the overall picture is beginning to fall into place. Cronus never talks about his past or his family because he’s not on speaking terms with them. Whether it’s because he ran away or because they kicked his sorry ass out you can’t make out yet, with him either is possible. They look like a formal bunch; traditionalists with old money. Exactly the kind of people he considers stifling and irritating, as well as the kind of people who would probably not approve of his couch-hopping habits, his trailer-musician lifestyle and his casual substance abuse for cheap thrills.

“Why did you search me out?” you ask him. You would have asked something, anything about Cronus, but something tells you he’ll manage to worm his way into the conversation again without you having to bother. “After we uh, met in the bar, I mean.”

He’s silent for a moment, searches your face for something. You’re not sure what, so you try to keep it neutral, suddenly all too aware your shades are still upstairs somewhere, with your coat. From the amused look he gives you you can only assume your face is doing strange things without your permission. “People used to sort a’ automatically assume I’d follow in Cro’s footsteps. I hated it so I spent years tryin’ to just prove them wrong, you know? So I guess you could say that bein’ mistaken for him again didn’t sit well with me. My turn, why did you get so pissed at me the first time we met?”

Finally it all clicks, all of the little things he didn’t say or didn’t do, his confusion at your cold shoulder and his anger at the way you never gave him a chance: he didn’t know. From the beginning, Eridan hasn’t had the faintest clue what your problem with him and his brother was, has been operating without any idea what you were going through, and you suddenly feel very dumb about of the way you’ve been acting.

“This is going to sound,” you begin, very tempted to try and hide your face into your hands, “really stupid, but it’s mostly because of your face.”

He looks confused now, and it’s really kind of adorable. You wonder if he would mind if you kissed him right now, but then you realise that kind of bullshit would probably be kind of out of place, so you don’t. “My... face?”

“I was, until a few days before that, in a relationship with Cronus.” 

You’re sort of expecting the end of the world to happen when you say that. If nothing else, you expect some kind of outburst, maybe anger about the way he has to be able to see you were using him now. Maybe he’d kick you out so you could go and feel like a complete jerk in peace. Instead he makes a sour face at you, not so much disapproving of you personally as just plain grossed out by the prospect of _anyone_ being in a relationship with Cronus. You wonder if he just went through a ‘my brother is having sex’ revelation, but then you remember what said brother is like, and you figure it’s probably more of a ‘my brother has had actual relationships with real human beings that are not space-aliens’ kind of thing. “Why?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself ever since,” you tell him, relishing in the shared contempt, “I’m calling temporary insanity. Either way, it didn’t end well and, well, you know how it goes. I was pissed off and drunk, and you happened to be there so I took it out on you. And then you kept on coming back, and it was kind of like fate was shoving it’s middle finger right up my nose and rubbing the bad breaks in my face, you know?”

He looks like he’s not sure what to think, whether he should try to apologise, or maybe defend himself because really, none of this was really his fault to start out with. Instead all he says is “oh”. 

“So I think,” you start carefully, “it’s about time we start exploring all the ways you’re _not_ like Cronus, yeah?”

He sits perfectly still for a moment, letting your words sink in. Then he scoots closer to you, puts his hands on your shoulders carefully like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off if he moves too fast. Then he kisses you, soft and sweet and very much unlike any of your earlier kisses.

He’s still a complete shit kisser; his lips are wet, sloppy and clumsy against yours, and you think that might be as good a place to start counting as any.

**Author's Note:**

> [16:28:21] ZeeCatfish: together Dave and Eridan set up a line of therapeutic penis candles  
> [16:28:26] ZeeCatfish: they call them healing cocks  
> [16:28:34] ZeeCatfish: and they lived happily ever after  
> [16:28:51] ZeeCatfish: except for Cronus, who got herpes


End file.
